Confrontation

Harry felt a flicker of irritation at the old wizard's words but masked it swiftly, keeping his gaze steady. He knew Dumbledore well enough by now—there was rarely a straightforward conversation with him.

"What exactly do we need to talk about, Professor?" Harry asked neutrally, careful not to betray impatience.

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled gently behind his half-moon spectacles as he opened his mouth to speak—likely to deliver a scolding—but he stopped.

The headmaster's gaze sharpened with a newfound intensity that Harry found disconcerting—an intensity focused directly on his forehead...

"My boy! What happened to your scar?" he exclaimed with such a ferocity that Harry almost cringed away.

Harry's hand jerked reflexively towards his forehead, fingertips brushing the once jagged mark.

He hesitated, unsure of how much truth he should give away, yet knowing any lie would ring hollow beneath the headmaster's scrutiny. He also didn't need the headmaster thinking that his rapid progress was due to a bloody soul possession or something.

However, all of Harry's musings were ultimately pointless as his rage burst through.

"Wouldn't you like to now, Headmaster?" he said with as much contempt as he could. "Why, what's so different about my scar?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and defiant.

Harry could feel his magic thrumming beneath his skin, responding to his anger. He noticed Dumbledore's expression shift from concern to something more calculating, those piercing blue eyes studying him with renewed interest.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Dumbledore took a step forward, nodding to himself and said: "Harry, when did this change occur?"

Harry shook his head with a weary sigh. "Headmaster, you won't get any answers from me—not unless you come clean about everything, and I mean everything, that you know."

Dumbledore's expression remained unreadable for a moment, the deep lines of his face cast in thoughtful shadow as he studied Harry. Then, with the faintest sigh, he adjusted his half-moon spectacles and regarded the young wizard with a weight that pressed against the air itself.

"I see," Dumbledore murmured. "So, you are quite set on equal exchange. Information for information. A reasonable demand, I must admit, though I suspect you already know some of what I have to say."

Harry crossed his arms, his stance unmoving. "Try me."

Dumbledore hesitated only a fraction longer before inclining his head. "Very well, my boy. I will be blunt—perhaps more so than you expect."

Harry didn't move, though his pulse quickened.

"Your scar, Harry. It is—or rather, it was—a Horcrux. I suspect you know what that means?"

The headmaster's words settled like stones in the space between them.

Harry offered the man the barest confirmation to his question and forced his expression to remain neutral. "You sound awfully sure of that."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Because I am. I have suspected it for some time, but now… now I am certain."

Harry's fingers twitched at his sides, itching to react—to do something.

'I spent my whole life, bearing the damn thing, a piece of my parents' murderer. I felt it sear with pain whenever HE was near, had endured countless nights of visions and whispered thoughts that almost drove me crazy. And now, to be told outright by the bastard that—'

He exhaled slowly. "If you were so sure, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Dumbledore's gaze softened, yet there was an unyielding steel beneath the warmth. "Because, Harry, knowledge is a burden. And I… I wished to spare you that burden for as long as I could."

Harry let out a bitter laugh. "Right. Because not knowing that I was carrying around a piece of Voldemort's soul inside my head was somehow better?"

"You would not have been ready," Dumbledore admitted, though there was no arrogance in his tone. "Had I told you earlier, you might have despaired. You might have sought… rash methods of removing it, ones that would have cost you your life."

Harry clenched his jaw. "Maybe so, Dumbledore. And yet, somehow, here I stand. Horcrux-less."

"Yes," Dumbledore murmured, stepping closer. "That, I must admit, is what troubles me most."

His voice was quiet, but it held a weight that sent a chill down Harry's spine.

"Troubles you how?" Harry demanded.

Dumbledore's gaze was piercing. "Because I can no longer sense it, my boy. The piece of Voldemort's soul in your scar—it is gone. And I do not know why."

Silence stretched between them, only the distant rustle of leaves breaking the moment.

Harry felt something cold settle in his gut.

'Does he think he is entitled to know everything?' Harry mused, his wrath rising at the headmaster's continued attempts to pry information from him. He'd kept Harry in the dark for so long, and now he expected full disclosure? The hypocrisy was unbelievable.

"Magic, especially dark magic, leaves traces, my boy. And yet… I feel nothing from you where that piece of Voldemort once was. Can you tell me why that is?"

Harry met Dumbledore's gaze steadily, a cold smile playing at his lips. "No."

If he was taken aback by his concise rejection, Dumbledore didn't show it.

"Very well," he said. "Let's talk about your behaviour at this school, then."

Dumbledore's words settled between them like a guillotine waiting to drop. Harry had expected the conversation to turn in this direction—after all, it was never as simple as one topic with the headmaster. There was always something more, a layer beneath the layer.

"My behaviour?" Harry repeated, arching a brow. "Do enlighten me, Headmaster, what exactly is so troubling about it?"

Dumbledore's expression did not waver, but there was a shift in his presence—an increase in the weight behind his gaze. "You have become unpredictable," he said simply. "Elusive. You skip classes without a care, you defy authority more brazenly than ever, and now I learn you have been stealing potions from Professor Snape."

Harry remained silent, letting the accusations slide off him like water from a duck's feathers. He had no intention of justifying his actions to Dumbledore—the headmaster's opinion meant nothing to him anymore.

The old man sighed, taking a slow step forward, as if attempting to bridge the growing chasm between them. "Harry… I do not seek to control you. You are free to make your own choices, as you always have been. But I cannot help but wonder: to what end?"

Harry held back a scoff. "You say that like you don't already know."

Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly, but the amusement did not reach his eyes. "Perhaps I do. But I would rather hear it from you."

"You claim you don't want to control me," he said at last, voice even. "But that's exactly what you've done, isn't it? For years, you've kept me in the dark, nudged me in directions you wanted, and given me only half the truth when the full truth was what I needed. Hell, Dumbledore, you tried to wipe my mind just a few months ago. Don't preach to me about freedom and choices when you've been pulling my strings since the beginning."

Dumbledore's composure finally cracked, a flicker of pain crossing his weathered features. "Everything I did was to protect you, Harry. To prepare you for—"

"For what?" Harry cut in sharply. "For being your sacrificial lamb?"

He didn't wait for the headmaster's reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Dumbledore standing alone in the courtyard.

The old wizard made no move to stop him, though Harry could feel those blue eyes boring into his back. He had said his piece, and there was nothing left to discuss.

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Chapter 102: Last Task

Chapter 103: Aurum Fiend

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Chapter 110: Norwegian Wood